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PROLOGUE: OPERATION GARDEN SNAKE

April 17th, 2195

2340 HRS

It was hopelessly dark, aside from the speckled light of the heavens, as if the darkness had no choice but to seep into everything endlessly. It shrouded the earth. It was so thick it felt like it could get into your bones. The only thing which could distract from it was a soft yet steady breeze rustling through the brush. It came from the marine layer of the bay and persisted well into the night. The sound of great rushing waters could be heard in the distance. It was once floodplains, but after the catastrophe, it became oceanfront. The sound of the flow was overcome by the singing of the creatures hiding in the same blackness. They sang with volume, but their choir was more like white noise.

Snap – a match was struck, illuminating a convene of three men, clad in black, indistinguishable from the darkness. The crimson cherry of a cigarette stood alone in the shadows, like a lone star, beneath the uncountable multitude above. The man inhaled and exhaled the ghastly tobacco smoke. He looked like a phantom. Vengeful. Dangling from his neck by a strap was a sleek, black rifle. Not a word was spoken between the trio.

Suddenly another flash emerged. A striking green light some 75 meters away from them. The sound of metal and plastic rustling followed. The man quickly tossed his cigarette and pulled down his mask. All three men began to quickly move through the heavy greens of the rainforest. The downpour continued. It still rained in this region. In fact, it rained too much. The leaves were deformed and porous from the acid, with either large gaping abscesses or white blotches and burns. If it touched their skin, they’d be miserable for weeks.

As they pushed on; eventually, large, white beams of light began occasionally dotting their path. They froze and blended into the environment flawlessly every time it passed them. The green dot from before flashed again, this time twice. All at once, a heavy sound could be heard, albeit briefly. Large masses of weight had hit the ground. The blazing white lights passed above them again and again. Each time they embraced the earth below them. After a few more cycles, the green flash came again, and all the men began to crawl toward the structure.

They approached the sturdy walls lying in the middle of the jungle that was now revealed to be stucco. Their attention was drawn to a figure patrolling the heights above them. A flash similar to the ones before could be seen... this time, red – and in less than a few seconds, an abrupt sound of a silenced discharge from a rifle could be heard, and the shadowy figure collapsed with a loud sound. Another discharge took place soon after, and another thud followed.

The tallest man of the group pulled out a handheld device and aimed above them, and fired it, and a long black hook attached itself to the highest story of the compound. He began rappelling the wall, and another followed. A large dish-like structure with a flashing red light was spinning softly but steadily, mounted above the highest point of the structure. The shorter drew a screen from his baggage, connected it to the terminal beneath the dish, and began entering information. The indicator and saucer ceased activity within seconds.

“This is Orbital, radio-check. Radio-check. Comm lines appear to be free. Do you copy?” buzzed a cold, robotic, yet feminine voice inside the helmets of the operatives.

“Copy, Orbital. This is DREAD. Loud and clear. Request to proceed.” said one of them, crouching on the mossy earth below – with a deep, graveled voice. His face was covered by the black-visored headgear, leaving nothing exposed but his companion’s. Underneath was a thick red beard accompanied by soft yet icy blue eyes, but they were covered by the stare of his visor, which made him and the other appear like a dead things. A monster.

“Affirmative DREAD, you’re clear to proceed.” the transmission followed.

“You heard that, Rogers. Split into three strike groups. CLOWN and BONES will begin clearing the compound from the top down.” Winnfield whispered into his headset. “SQUID, you’re with me. I will take point.” The two men who had already scaled the fortress motioned a signal to the others below and began to breach the rooftop door. “Remember, boys, this is ADDER we’re dealing with. We’ll take him dead or alive.”

“Copy, DREAD,” said Hardaway.

“SHIVER, SAW, take overwatch after the breach. Control the perimeter.” Winnfield followed.

“Roger,” said Kohn, callsign SHIVER, switching his visor to night vision and pointing his rifle into the black horizon. Lieutenant Padilla, callsign SAW, who was the largest and most muscular of the group, simply nodded as he gripped his own weapon. He clutched it as if he were clutching onto something or someone dear to him. No matter how many times they had done this, no matter how strong his body was, his heart raced in his chest. Sweat dripped from his brow.

Captain Winnfield and Lieutenant Hardaway crouched in the shadow of the walls funneling out from the gate, with Kohn and Padilla following together as they always did -- this time in a wider position. Kohn dropped pronely, his fatigues and armor concealing him in the blackness of the surrounding brush. He quickly but subtly drew his rifle and took aim at one of the two guards patrolling the roof just minutes earlier. Padilla took position right next to Kohn and aimed at the other. They both took deep breaths and fired simultaneously. The threat was neutralized.

Below, two more men were lazily hovering around the heavy gate, smoking cigarettes. Winnfield pulled from his possession the device which had produced the colored flashes from earlier, and after making certain, he triggered the red light. Hardaway and the rest of the party could now identify the targets in their visors. Hardaway took aim, but Winnfield quickly waved him down. With one quick, pressurized bolt, not one, but both of the men hit the damp ground, with the now familiar cloud of blood taking flight. The two reassembled around the gate as Hardaway took his rifle, poked it through one of the openings, and peeked around using the weapon’s scope. Using it, he examined the villa that they were prepared to breach.

The courtyard was beautiful. It had well-placed crimson tiles and a large, still-functioning fountain between two winding staircases. The whole manse had been militarized, as there were sandbags and crates of various materials lying around. Such luxury, what a shame. Hardaway could not help but think to himself –- staring at the cascading fountain with an elegantly sculpted woman placed in the eye of the pool. But he quickly pushed the thought away as any military man would, only allowing it a moment’s attention. Focused and with a particular animosity in his eyes, he attached the small plastic charges to the portcullis of the courtyard and took cover, holding onto the trigger. The rain started to subside.

“SQUID, prepare for contact,” Winnfield said softly, holding his breath.

“Light em’ up, boys,” said Renner over the comm link.

Five more guards were sitting around a table on fold-out chairs, watching a football game, still unsuspecting. In one quick burst, shards of reinforced iron and stucco became shrapnel and flew in all directions. They were killed instantly, punished for their negligence. Trip alarms were set, and sirens began blaring throughout the area, not only in the premises of the hold but well into the wilderness. Black wires traveled into the distance as far as the eye could see.

Bullets began whizzing all at once. Hardaway began firing bursts of suppressive fire into the beautifully tiled courtyard as militia began pouring out of the mouth of the facility. Behind him, Winnfield fired well-placed shots into every Soldado that poured into the courtyard. Something had possessed him that night. He was hitting them all squarely and lethally. Their bodies began stumbling down the stairs.

Machine guns began hurling rounds toward the four, who were crouched and prone outside the breached entry point. Kohn quickly discharged a grenade from the attachment on his weapon into the courtyard to the shouting of Granada! Followed by shouts and grunting of pain. More shrapnel was slicing through the air. In succession, Captain Winnfield threw a smoke canister into the commotion.

Winnfield and Hardaway swiftly rushed into the courtyard, passing through the dark plume of smoke like evil specters, when suddenly, another hail of machine gun fire began spraying at them, halting their advance. A gasp of audible pain escaped the mouth of Hardaway into their local communication line.

“SQUID? Status!” Winnfield buzzed into his headset.

“I’m hit, I’m hit, left side. Left side.” Hardaway answered, huffing and puffing between each expression.

As the smoke cleared, more combatants than Winnfield had counted before were taking cover around the dual staircase that led inside.

“BONES! CLOWN! Status!” Winnfield clamored into his headset.

A transmission began cackling into their helmets, with the distinctive background noise of gunfire. “... we’re...up...too!” said the voice of Lieutenant Jackson, callsign BONES through the comm link.

“SHIVER, SAW!” Winnfield shouted into the network. “TAKING FIRE! NOW!”

Another line of men charged behind them, firing bursts as they rolled in and out of cover, hitting just a few of the soldado, who was unloading into the area. One came down and attempted to wrestle Winnfield down. The Dread Captain struck him with his bayonet, and the scuffle ended quickly.

A game of cat and mouse began as the two groups exchanged gunfire for several minutes; though the Jolly Rogers did thin the ranks of the militiamen, they were still too heavily pinned down to advance. Suddenly, a saw machine gun had made its way straddled to the arm of a Soldado from the stairs above.

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The barrage of bullets became so intense that smoke seized the air from the friction of the slugs hitting the stucco and red tiles. Hardaway winced from the profuse smell of the wasted gunpowder – but Winnfield’s resolve was unchanged, for he had been tested so many times before. On this particular night, for no particular reason that he could account for, the adrenaline coursing through his veins seemed all that much more potent.

It wasn’t very long before the enemy ceased their volley as they realized that their foe was comfortably covered from lethal fire –- the murmurs of Spanish were being heard amongst them during the standstill. Mere seconds passed, but a slight twist of Hardaway’s abraded leg rearranged just enough rubble to cause another crescendo of focused onslaught from the enemy. They held the high ground.

Winnfield quickly pulled a palm-sized black sphere from one of his utility clips and pockets, which were dangling from his chest armor. He pressed the button, lightly rolling it between where the four men were split, taking cover. “NOW!” Winnfield shouted with great wrath. A shade of what appeared to be him, a perfect representation, sprang forth, ducking and rolling. The enemy fell for the ruse and began to open fire on the image. The true Captain sprung to his feet, Hardaway matching – as they both began their attack. They were far more precise, far more deadly – not a single round was wasted.

“SQUID, is that scratch there going to keep you from carrying out your duties?” Winnfield said with struggle as Hardaway laid on his back, staring into the sea of constellations exclusive to the southern hemisphere. The same constellations that he pondered as a youth. He snapped out of it.

“N-no, sir… I’ll… be fine.”

“SHIVER, git over ere’ and tighten him up,” Winnfield said fiercely.

Kohn didn’t take long to apply a tourniquet to Hardaway’s leg. Following behind, Padilla joined, taking the Lieutenant’s arm over his shoulder and assisting him as he hopped up the stairs.

“CLOWN,” Winnfield said into his headpiece. “Call it in. I need to catch my breath.”

“Roger, Captain.”

“CLOWN to Orbital! RZ on the 50 in 2-60.” buzzed Lieutenant Renner. Captain Winnfield couldn’t help but smile.

The orange tinge of the morning sun began to creep over the deep greens of the wild as CLOWN made his way down the main stairwell, firing bursts as he took each step. Each burst was deadly to the enemy, as the resistance was not expecting a rear attack.

Renner approached him and scanned him and then reached for a pulse.

He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and revealed a black ink stain of a face… an angry, grimacing face, like a theatre mask. He kept searching the body for another marking but couldn’t find it.

“Hmm,” Renner exclaimed as he extended the antenna from his helmet once more.

“Orbital, this is CLOWN. SCEPTER, CICERO, DOMINO. We have acquired a target, waiting for a positive ID. The target could have modified his appearance…. I’m attempting to upload footage… but it’s jammed again….”

“Copy, CLOWN. Proceed.”

Winnfield’s body loosened ever so slightly. He approached the body slowly and removed his visor. His bushy beard slightly obstructed its removal. Using his rifle, he prodded the body, looking for something.

The other Rogers looked at Winnfield expectantly, who tossed his cigar in frustration. He pulled up his visor in his loose hand and pressed the transmitter.

“Orbital, SCEPTER - CICERO - DOMINO… This is an empty burrow. ADDER ain’t here. Repeat; we have an empty burrow.”

The men began to curse and fling themselves around in anger. Renner lifted his visor, revealing his cold, sweaty face.

“We had him, Captain; what happened? This is him, ain’t it?” he whispered.

“No, he doesn’t have the gift that I left him with.” Said Winnfield, still poking at his chest with the rifle barrel.

Renner whipped his head around in frustration, cursing under his breath.

“Sending in TACC for extract.” said a cold feminine voice.

Before the transmission had ceased, there was a sudden, violent force – the whole gate-side wall crumbled in an explosion, knocking all of the Rogers’ to the ground. As the dust was settling, several soldados in firing position was summoned. There seemed to be dozens waiting behind the exposed rubble as they regained themselves. A means of ground transport with even more armed militia moved into the smoldering ruin of the courtyard – all disembarking and taking aim at the greatly outnumbered Captain Winnfield and his men.

The driver exited the cab, left the vehicle running, and opened the back of the truck.

Every single eyelid of the Jolly Rogers opened in shock as a man with an identical tattoo as their captured man approached them, weapon drawn. He had a half-finished cigarillo and a flat-brimmed hat. His hair was black and greasy, and he had a long, bushy black beard. He wore a gold chain on his neck, accenting the tattoo on his flesh. The grim face.

Winnfield removed his headgear, exposing his face, scarred from years of operations.

The tattooed man began to laugh.

“Well, hello there, brothers,” he said mockingly, turning to the soldados, waving his firearm around like a deranged lunatic, although his subjects did not budge nor understand. He quickly turned back, his face filled with hatred as he pointed the pistol at Winnfield.

“There he is. The quitter,” said Winnfield.

“Quitter?” He said. “Try savior, James… if only you’d let me save you….”

The two stood man-to-man, neither backing down.

“That man there, he is none of your concern.” Said the man called ADDER. “Releassse him.” Two of his men approached the defeated party and the man with the identical tattoo to retrieve him. After taking him, they placed him on a stretcher produced from the truck’s cargo. ADDER collected himself.

“Well, the times sure have changed, haven’t they, James?” He stated.

“You have devalued your name as a warrior and the name of the unit… I’m ashamed, James, ashamed. Your aim’s still off. You still swing wildly around like an ape.”

“...we never lose.” Said Winnfield.

“Only evolve,” ADDER said, finishing his sentence. “How tasteless.”

“And, look who’s talking, Bil… you’ll never shoot straight again.” Remarked Winnfield.

“Oh-ho.” He said. “You as well as I know; it only takes one.”

“But this? This group of rodents I’ve just swallowed? Pitiful.”

ADDER seemed to acknowledge his tenacity as he licked his free hand.

“This is not the razor-sharp instrument of death that I once knew. What is this pitiful squadron you bring before me? What a farce.”

“Clearly…” He marveled sarcastically.

“You’ve not made such a good Captain as your reputation would offer….”

“A good Captain doesn’t quit.” quipped Winnfield.

The ADDER smirked.

“Look at what you did to my home. Is this proper among gentlemen, James?” He continued with a cheap, melodramatic sadness in his voice. “This is how desperate de ‘Yune has become?”

Winnfield had nothing to say.

“Why do you still fight for him, James? I can understand the old hag… but him?”

He scoffed.

“They both do nothing but preserve the suffering of the poor and prolong the doom of this world. He wastes blood and bullets, delaying the inevitable for greed and self-righteousness. She profits from inaction and clings to power.”

Again, ADDER motioned to his troops. They advanced up the stairs, stripped the squad of their weapons, and returned to him, laying them on the crumbled tile before him.

“This hacienda belonged to my family for several generations. It was one of my favorites...” He lamented.

He was marveling at the once beautiful home's now crushed walls and wreckage.

“...when the ice still rested.” He lamented.

He turned to DREAD.

“You may allow yourself to sink into dereliction, but I cannot allow such a desecration to one of our sacred spaces.”

He turned around and took a few steps toward them again. The whole squadron, aside from Winnfield had their hands behind their heads in surrender. Suddenly, with ferocity, ADDER grabbed one of the confiscated rifles, aimed, and opened fire, which prompted all of the Rogers to drop to the ground. Hardaway shouted and instinctively jerked toward Winnfield, pushing him as hard as he could.

When they awoke from the haze, a pool of blood was beginning to form beneath them. The Rogers were shouting and swearing. The soldados remained focused upon them, unphased.

Lieutenant Hardaway’s vision returned to him; he had seen that it was, in fact, their beloved Captain whose blood was beginning to seep into the cracks of the once masterful tiling. Winnfield gasped as blood splashed from his mouth. The thin scarlet streaks poured down his neck. His lungs were punctured. He tried to speak, but he could not. Hardaway’s pupils reduced to a pinprick as he beheld his Captain, whom he revered… finally made low. The other Rogers’ was frozen in focus, clinging to their programming.

ADDER lowered the rifle, which was smoking profusely. He grinned and chuckled.

“An eye for an eye, brother.”

ADDER turned to one of his officers and whispered something in his ear. He then turned to the defeated assassins in shock, screaming and yelling profanities.

“It seems, today, you will finally meet the black bride,” ADDER said, grooming himself after climbing into his vehicle. “It was my honor to introduce you.”

The officer and his men approached the Rogers, covering their faces with linen sacks. They used the blunt end of their rifles to knock them to their knees and then face down. The men picked them up, carried them down the stairs, and tossed them into the back of the transport.

ADDER struck a match, which shook in his hand, and lit a cigarillo. He looked at the men, all blinded and bound. He chuckled.

“My men will take you to the beach. You may contact your superiors there.” He said. “Oh. Please deliver these words for me to CICERO, will you?”

Winnfield was barely hanging on, groaning in pain. They approached him and lifted him. He groaned and wheezed. The two men held him by the foot and his shoulders. They cranked back twice and violently tossed him into the transport. Winnfield bellowed in agony, blood spurting from his lips. The jolt startled the blinded squadron.

The ride was bumpy, and the men heard the conversation, mostly in Spanish, some English. Eventually, their masks were removed. The vehicles were still moving, but the transport beds were opened, one by one; they were held at gunpoint, unbound, and kicked off onto the beach. Winnfield was rolled off the vehicle's bed and dumped into the sands which were stained with his blood as he fell.

He was already dead.